


It's Not an Attempt at Decency

by Spitshine



Series: The Good That Won't Come Out [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Daddy Kink, Excessive Wetness, F/F, Fem!Steter, Female Peter Hale, Female Stiles Stilinski, Fisting, Gags, Offscreen Kink Negotiation, Semi-Shifted Sex, These Idiots, Unreliable Narrator, college fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 04:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15766785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: “I didn't bring any lube, Stiles,” Peter whispers, and it sounds like a promise.





	It's Not an Attempt at Decency

**Author's Note:**

> look i've been listening to rilo kiley nonstop since i saw jenny lewis last month and it gives me strong fem steter vibes okay
> 
> (stiles will learn that she's worthy of love. one day. but first i'm going to write a lot of cluelessly angsty porn)
> 
> as always, endless thank yous to evil_kneazle for shrieking and betawork and also the good 75% of my ideas. ILU FRIEND

Stiles is cranky when Peter drops her off at her dorm the next morning. One, she could have happily slept for at least a hundred more hours. Two, Peter didn't wake her up until the last possible second so not only did she have to rush through coffee and getting dressed and brushing teeth, all of which was bad enough, but.

Peter did not wake her up in time for morning sex. Even though the night before, she had specifically requested getting fisted before class.

“This injustice will not stand,” she grumbles, falling out of the Volvo. “I'm gonna kill you again.”

One great thing about Peter coming back from the dead is that she really doesn't give a shit about anything that happened before. “So... you don't want me to meet you after this class?”

Stiles whips around so fast her own braid hits her in the nose. “What? No! I didn't say that! Twelve thirty, I'll be done at twelve thirty. And then I have two hours before I need to be at Cyber Forensics.”

“I'll see you at that little park behind Wren Hall, then. I'm bringing lunch.”

“I have a meal plan.”

“I'm not fucking you before you eat, Stiles.” And then, in an undertone, “Pack takes care of each other.”

Stiles rolls her eyes, pleased, and runs off to grab her books before she's late. Her major was a pragmatic choice—systems designs will pay back her loans quicker than anything else, and the field of cyber magic is frankly exploding—but her minor was just for her, and despite her protests to the contrary, Folklore and Cultural Persistence is her favorite class by far and she'd rather not miss it.

Unfortunately, all the good intentions in the world can't help her focus on Saami mythology when she knows good and goddamn well what's waiting for her after class. She spends the ninety minutes making abstract doodles where her notes should go, staring out the window, and not raising her hand—or even interrupting—once.

She absolutely does not drool on her own hand while she's lost in thought. Absolutely not.

For the first time all semester, she doesn't linger after class to pick the professor's brain. Instead, she ignores the worried look on Prof Lorentzen's face and rushes out almost before the woman finishes announcing next week's reading.

She slips between two trees, into the hidden little grove on the far corner of campus, right where it backs up against the old cemetery, to find that Peter's set up a picnic lunch for them, basket, blanket and all. She pulls up fast, astonishment rounding her features. “What's this?”

Peter looks up from her book. “You're not stupid, Stiles.”

She collapses in a messy heap next to her, knees and elbows poking out at all angles. “Okay, sure, but when you said lunch I didn't think you meant eating.” Her gaze drops, pointedly, eyebrows waggling. “Or, uh...”

Peters sighs dramatically. “What I said, you darling, idiot girl, is that I wouldn't fuck you before you eat. So hurry up or we'll run out of time.”

Stiles is two bites in before she's done talking, devours a footlong, an apple, two pickle spears, and one of those fancy juices from the bougie grocery store, one of the ones with sediment on the bottom that turns your pee pink.

Peter watches with something like astonishment, eating her own sandwich at a more sedate pace. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Uh... this morning? At your house?”

“Don't be obtuse, Stiles.”

Shrug. “I don't really keep track. Anyway, I'm done eating now and I _really_ didn't schlep all the way out here so you could criticize my life choices.” She lays back on the blanket, stretching her arms ostentatiously over her head to show that little strip of skin between her underwear and the shirt she, ah, borrowed from Peter that morning.

“I didn't bring any lube, Stiles,” Peter whispers, husky, and it sounds like a promise. She stalks across the blanket on hands and knees, eyes flashing blue, until she's suspended over Stiles, and Stiles can't help it, she shivers—she feels safe, finally, trapped under her like this. “Aw, baby, don't be scared,” Peter murmurs into her ear before dipping down to kiss her.

It's not rough or fast, but it is _thorough_ as fuck, makes her gasp and arch up, press her scrap of a body against Peter's big, sturdy one. She whimpers and whines, spreading her legs as far as she can in the narrow confines of Peter's embrace. She twists her fingers in Peter's flannel and sinks into the sensation, Peter taking her mouth like it belongs to her, like it's always been hers, like it could never belong to anyone else.

“Peter, Peter!” she gasps, muffled. “I need, oh, I need...”

“Not yet, sweetheart. I told you,” she bites down on Stiles' ear, delicate and sharp, “I didn't,” a hand snaking under Stiles' shirt, “bring,” clawed fingers scraping across her belly, “any lube.”

“I'm wet, I'm wet, daddy, I promise,” Stiles sobs. “I'm so wet, daddy.”

“Not wet enough,” she hisses, hot breath brushing the shell of Stiles' ear before, in a flash, she flips her over, pins her wrists to the blanket hard enough to bruise, sets her teeth against her shoulder and bites down, pressing her knee against the pounding warmth of Stiles' cunt.

Stiles wails, humping forward against the blanket and fucking back against Peter's thick thigh; she wails and wails and comes hard, jerking in Peter's unyielding grip as it shudders through her, wave after wave.

Peter's thumb comes up to stroke at her bottom lip, once, twice, and then the other woman's weight lifts off her entirely and she whines at the loss.

“Shh, baby, it's alright,” she hears behind her. “Everything's okay, just got to help you be a little quieter.” The thumb is back, hooks her bottom lip and pulls down, and then something else is pressing at her mouth, between her teeth—soft fabric, the lint of cotton—

 _Peter's goddamn underwear_.

She moans, she can't help it, and drops her jaw, opens as wide as she can, and bites down. This is truly not fair. She hardly ever gets the chance to lick Peter out, but she knows, she _knows_ exactly how crazy Stiles goes whenever she's remotely in the vicinity of Peter's cunt, and it's just. Not. Fair.

It is highly enjoyable, though, and she loses herself for a moment, tasting the salt and the sweet, humming with pleasure as her own spit soaks the fabric and set the flavor loose, coursing over her tongue.

And then she's on her back, Peter's hands on her thighs and jeans halfway down her legs. Her eyes fly open and she sees Peter, crouched over her and mouth open, staring at her cunt in some kind of wonderment.

She tries to beg Peter through the gag, for more, for anything, but all she gets out is a stifled “Aaa-ee.”

Peter doesn't even look up. “Be patient, baby.” She finishes pulling her jeans down, though, yanks one of Stiles' feet out of the leg, and settles down on her belly, more than content, it would seem, to just lay between Stiles' splayed legs and stroke infuriating circles up her thighs. “Oh, honey,” she coos, “I think you're ready.” Stiles struggles up onto her elbows at that, eyes flashing in rage, but Peter's thumbs slide from her ass up to her cunt, nudge just inside, and she collapses again, boneless. “You're fucking _dripping_.”

Even after all that, Peter won't take mercy on her.

She draws it out, fucks her with one finger for about a week, won't let her come, and when she finally, _finally_ slips a second inside, Stiles sobs with relief and frustration, circling her hips desperately, seeking more, needing more, needing to be **full**.

Peter's other hand skates up her leg, ankle to knee and up to the join of her thigh, thumbs her open and holds her wide. She feels the cold air on the edge of her cunt, the wet heat of Peter's tongue circling her own fingers, and the thick slide of three fingers into her, merciless against her g-spot. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come for me now and I'll let you have the rest.”

Stiles can be obedient, when it suits her, and she does exactly as she's told, shakes apart everywhere Peter isn't touching her, writhes and shudders, digs her fingers painfully into her scalp, her shoulders. She knows she's losing control, spastic and unattractive, but she can't help it, feels the earth sliding out from under her and wraps her legs tight around Peter's torso just so she doesn't float away.

She's barely stopped coming, still racked with fine trembles all over her body, when Peter pulls all the way out and pushes back in, five fingers in a tight bundle, the knot of her knuckles pressing against her, and then she gives way all of a sudden, lets Peter so deep inside there's a lump in her throat. She loses everything but the feel of Peter's hand inside her, Peter's hair between her fingers, Peter's teeth sunk low on her stomach.

It's not an orgasm's release of tension but it's too intense to be anything else, too overwhelming to be pleasurable, the walls she builds so carefully crumbling down around her, burying her in rubble. Her eyes clench shut and she flies in the darkness, only Peter's voice tethering her to the earth.

*

She regains her sense of self slowly, blinks tear-stuck eyes up at Peter, who's staring at her unblinking, mouth open and round, worry creasing her brow and something Stiles can't place starring her eyes. Something—shifts, inside her, and she realizes, slowly, that's Peter's hand pulling out, pulling away, and she spits her gag onto the ground, babbles, “No no no not yet daddy please I'm not ready please not yet,” and Peter slumps to the ground beside her, hand stilling.

Minutes pass, and Stiles gradually becomes aware of a world outside herself, the rustle of leaves and the chirp of the birds. The ant crawling over her wrist. “Time s'it?” she slurs.

“Hn? Oh, uh... 1:40.” She sounds almost as drunk as Stiles feels, and a pang of guilt runs through her that after all that, she didn't even get to come.

“Twenty minutes. Lemme up in twenty minutes... gotta change b'fore I go cyber.”

“And when can I have my hand back?”

“Mmm... five minutes.”

“I can't feel my thumb.”

“S'not my fault.”

“It literally is.”

“Shhhh. Snuggle now.” Stiles pats ineffectually at Peter's face until she curls in close, hot wolf breath against her ribs. It's... nice, cuddled up like this, loose-boned from coming, Peter's pulse still inside her. Almost—it's almost everything she wants.

**Author's Note:**

> i really liked ending on that little moment but just know that
> 
> 1) when stiles finally lets peter pull her hand out it is FUCKING drenched and she flicks stiles in the face with her own come  
> 2) peter totally orders indian delivery and times it so it's waiting for stiles when she gets home from her last class. SUBTLE SHE AIN'T
> 
> come say hi on tumbls @the-knitter-soldier, comments and kudos make me literally explode with glee, etc etc i love everyone in this bar


End file.
